


A Study in Book Retrieval

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: “I’ve been waiting for two weeks for this book to be returned to the library but it still isn’t back so I waited until all the librarians were distracted and I got your address from their computer system, hand over the book.”(Via the wonderful awful-aus tumblr, Awful AU #176)My friend Dollie loves unilock! I found this prompt a while ago and I thought it would make a perfect unilock AU.I took liberties with the prompt, as one does. The more I worked with it, the more it morphed into an alternative how-they-met story in which John is pretty damn smart, Sherlock is pretty damn impressive, and, despite the fact that their interactions are extremely minimal, they fall in love anyway. I have no idea where their entirely fictional university is, except that it's obviously in London, where the two of them belong. Any resemblance to an actual London uni campus would be a freaking miracle, to be honest. Happy birfday, Dollo! I love you. I hope this puts a smile on your face!





	

John Watson lingered in the stacks on the third floor of the Humanities library, pretending to read issue 83 of _The British Journal of the History of Philosophy_ , which he had open to an article on St. Thomas Aquinas's theory of the angelic hierarchy. He couldn't have been less interested in the article, written in 1984 by someone called A. Andallarse, which sounded like an entirely unlikely name for, well, anyone. He wondered idly if "Professor Andallarse" could possibly have gone to the trouble of placing an article in the journal under a joke name, perhaps to prank the editors, or the discipline of philosophy in general.

All the while, John kept his eye on the bloke he desperately needed to talk to.

Said bloke, a lanky fellow with the most glorious head of dark curls John had ever seen, was currently occupying an old, beaten study carrel, an array of books piled around him. As far as John could tell, they included a range of tattered novels by an author John had never heard of, and a book about the history of trepanation, which John knew, from his history of medicine course, was the fine (monstrous) art of drilling holes in people's skulls, for purported medical reasons, and also to let out evil spirits. 

After all of the trouble John had gone to over Sherlock Holmes, he wondered if he shouldn't perhaps consider drilling a hole in his own head. It might be easier than having the conversation he'd been planning.

Holmes, whom John could just barely see through a gap in the shelving, was using his long, elegant fingertips to flip through the novels one at a time. Occasionally he muttered, "No, not yet, then," to himself, before tossing a book aside, and taking another from the pile.

John had been following Holmes for the better part of a week. He had started out furious with him. Now, he didn't know what he felt.

***

The whole complicated mess started because John's bioethics term paper was due frighteningly soon, and his professor had told him that, given the topic he'd chosen, Munson's _Intervention and Reflection_ was essential to his argument. John had put his name on the Science library wait list back at the beginning of October, thinking it would be no problem at all, since he was next in line to borrow the book, and it was due back in a few days. He would get it in plenty of time to start his research.

That was five weeks ago.

The librarians (multiple: John had asked more than one) had apologised (insincerely, at that) for the delay, and assured John that all notices had been sent, all fines issued, and, short of going to the home of the student in question and searching for the book personally, they had done everything they could to retrieve it.

He even went so far as to check his budget, to see if he could afford to buy a copy of the Munson for himself, but he didn't have sixty quid to spare, and he certainly shouldn't have to buy the book when he had every right to use the library copy.

Desperation made John clever, apparently, because last week, he got an idea, and he got his friend Mike to help him with it.

The routine was the same he'd followed repeatedly since he'd put the Munson on hold: he approached the desk with a smile, and asked whether the book was available yet. The librarian--this evening, a younger woman named Courtney, whom John had approached six times in the last month with exactly the same question--tried her best not to roll her eyes as she dutifully typed the book's title into the library's system.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid it still hasn't been returned," Courtney said, as if it were news.

And then, right on cue, just like John had coached him to, Mike stepped up to the desk and made a loud statement about finding what he heavily implied was human waste on the fifth floor landing.

Courtney naturally stepped aside to call maintenance, and that's when John took a peek at the screen, and that's when he first laid eyes on the name of his nemesis, the book hoarder, he who was destined to make him get a less than acceptable mark on his bioethics paper.

"What kind of a name is 'Sherlock Holmes,' anyway?" John ranted, as he and Mike left the library.

"Dunno," Mike said. "Sounds like the kind of bloke who keeps library books to spite you personally."

"Exactly!" John said, self-righteousness flooding through him. "Where does he get off? I mean, other people need those books. If you can't read it in two weeks, what, exactly, are you doing with your time--"

A hint of a smile formed on Mike's lips.

"Oh," John said. "You're taking the piss."

"A bit, mate. I mean, so you've got his name. I assume you're going to run right home and look him up in the student directory."

"Already did. Used the library copy while you were in the loo."

Mike's eyes widened. "All right...so what now? You have a name and address, but what are you going to do, stalk him? Demand your book back?"

John's laugh came out harder than he'd intended. "No! Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. You know me. I would never invade somebody's privacy like that. I suppose I just wanted to know who I was dealing with. You know, in case I ever run into him."

***

Most people were easy to find, once you knew their home address, but Holmes, it seemed, hardly ever returned to the flat he rented on the second floor of a ramshackle building, just off campus. After a couple of days spent haunting the neighbourhood, waiting to see a light go on in Holmes's window, or a silhouette appear, John decided he would have to keep digging.

A further search of the university's website had turned up a Sherlock Holmes in the chem department's newsletter, in a brief announcement saying he'd had a paper published in _The Journal of Organic Chemistry_. John had double checked: Holmes _was_ an undergraduate, same year as John--not a graduate student. He must be brilliant, writing and publishing a paper already.

Even though he was clearly a prat who didn't have the decency to return library books on time.

It wasn't until he was out for drinks with Mike, that John managed to make progress toward actually finding Holmes. 

"Some of the blokes from my biochem class know your book stealer," Mike said, as they were working on their second pints of the evening, and John was in the process of thrashing Mike at darts.

"Hoarder," John corrected, making another bull's-eye. "You're only a stealer if you never return them."

"Right," Mike said. "Well, some of the chem majors were talking about him. Seems he's got quite a reputation."

John's stomach flipped, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. Mike smiled into his pint--the same soft, kind grin he usually wore, when he was particularly amused.

John cleared his throat. "A reputation for what?"

***

Four introductions to chem majors who also happened to be drinking at the pub, three lines of inquiry, two dead ends, and one trip across campus later, John caught a glimpse of the man himself. He had to follow two of Holmes's classmates--a flaccid, unkempt fellow named Crichton and a jocular nerd named Frisbury--back to the chem building, to do it. The building was constructed around a central courtyard, and the pair assured John that the student lounge window would provide a good view of the lab Holmes favoured for late night research.

John absorbed the idea that Holmes had somehow arranged unsupervised access to the labs, while Frisbury and Crichton fussed about trying to find the light switches, before they opened the door to the lounge.

As they moved into the darkened room, John could see that his guides were right about the view: through the lounge windows, across the way, was the promised lab, lit from within by a bank of fluorescents. It was well gone past two in the morning, but a solitary figure moved between the tables, lifting a pipette as he prepared slides, then settling in at a microscope.

John couldn't have said what he was expecting. If someone had asked him, it certainly wouldn't have been a man John could only describe as beautiful, all clean lines and cheekbones and dark curls and seriousness, as he went about his research. Holmes was considerably overdressed for it, too, in a well-tailored suit.

Holmes's fingers tapped on the desk, and he took up pen and paper to make notes about his observations, or perhaps draw the image in the slides. Normal stuff, nothing unusual, but the intensity of his focus impressed John.

"What did he do to you, anyway?" Frisbury asked, a hint of gossip and conspiracy in his tone.

It was only when he went to answer that John realised he'd been holding his breath.

"Ah--he's got something I want."

Behind him, Crichton snickered. "What's that, mate?"

"A book. He's got a library book. I need it."

He could feel the look that passed between Frisbury and Crichton. He didn't have to see it.

"That's cool," Frisbury said, after a conspicuously long pause. "Anyone who's got a vendetta against Holmes is a friend of ours."

Mike had alluded to vague rumours that Holmes was a bit of a bully, but hadn't been able to report anything specific. Frisbury and Crichton, on the other hand, seemed ready to talk.

"Okay, lads, what did he do to _you_ , exactly? I just--want to know what I'm dealing with."

Crichton's voice was a low hiss. "He has this g-game. He knows...things about you. Just from looking at you. He can tell what you had for lunch, or if you shagged the night before, or--"

"Or if you didn't, and you're lying about it," Frisbury said, shooting John a look, and then glancing at Crichton.

"Really. How does he do that, exactly?"

Somehow, he couldn't imagine the chemistry department's star undergraduate, already published in an esteemed peer-reviewed journal, bothering to follow his classmates around, just for the sake of monitoring their sex lives, or their dietary habits.

"He w-won't say," Crichton said, his voice growing louder. "He just _knows_."

Frisbury took a step forward. "The point is, he's a nasty bastard. He's got no call to be so arrogant, either. He's not even making good grades."

"Oh? I thought he published--"

Crichton cut him off. "Oh yeah, the paper. He only did that because he wanted to prove Professor Wallachow wrong. On s-some obscure point nobody cares about. He argued about it, in the first lecture. The first day! Nobody knew what he was on about. He's spent all his time on it since then, hasn't he? D-doesn't even bother attending classes. He's barely passing them."

John looked back at the lab across the way, and startled. Sherlock Holmes was standing at the window, staring directly at the darkened lounge where he, Crichton, and Frisbury stood.

John thought it unlikely that he could see them clearly. They'd taken care to shut off all the lights. Still, he felt as though Holmes were looking right through him. It was disconcerting. Thrilling.

"Anyway, he's a total arsehole," Frisbury concluded, as if he were confident that John must agree.

John had only spent a few minutes in Crichton and Frisbury's company, but he'd already grown tired of them. He could only imagine what it would be like to be stuck in the same class with them. As much as he resented Holmes for hanging on to the Munson, he wondered if Holmes didn't have good reason to antagonise these two.

"He must be pretty smart," John said.

"What?" Frisbury said. "What do you mean?"

"If he's passing his classes but not attending them, he must be pretty smart."

"H-he's clever." Crichton said the word like it meant something particularly grotesque. "Clever enough, but make no mistake, he'll cut you in h-half rather than look at you."

"The point is, mate," Frisbury said, "if you have any excuse to go after him, we're behind that, all the way. You give him hell."

"Sure," John said, his eyes fixed on Holmes, as the other man turned from the window and went back to his research, his head held high. John couldn't have said why, but he was unable to stop staring. When he spoke again, his tone was dreamy. "Fine. Will do."

***

John slept fitfully that night, rising early to stare out his dorm room window, scratching the back of his head, running his fingers through the hair that always tended to stick up at the nape of his neck.

He needed a haircut. The semester had slipped by so fast, he'd barely had the time to think about his looks. Everyone let themselves go as the term advanced: it was unwritten uni code.

Everyone except Sherlock Holmes, it seemed.

He imagined Holmes leaving his laboratory in the early morning hours, to sneak back home for a rest, or maybe passing out on a sofa in an office somewhere in the chem department. If John were to go there, he wondered if he might find Holmes, his features relaxed and peaceful in sleep, his suit jacket unbuttoned and laid out over his shoulder like a blanket.

Christ.

John rolled his shoulders to stretch them out, pulled on a pair of jeans, and dug around in the laundry hamper for a shirt that wasn't too far gone to wear again.

Munson. This was all about the Munson, and getting Holmes to return it. Nothing else.

***

John skipped class for the next couple of days, in favour of haunting the chem building.

All he needed was the opportunity to talk to Holmes one on one. Then it would be over. Holmes had the Munson, and John needed it. Full stop. End of.

Maybe they could even have a laugh about it, later. Next term. If they got the chance to know each other.

Around noon, he was rewarded with the sudden appearance of Holmes, who strode from the building with all the purpose and speed of a soldier on a mission, the door clattering shut behind him dramatically. He moved so fast, there was no earthly way John could catch up with him without awkwardness.

Still, he'd gone to some trouble to find Holmes in the first place, and to see him again today. After a moment of indecision, John trailed after him, trotting to keep up with Holmes's gait.

As Holmes left campus and started on a circuitous route through town, John lingered as far behind as he could without losing him, trying to remain inconspicuous. Once or twice, he thought Holmes was about to turn and look over his shoulder. For a good five minutes, he was certain Holmes was weaving his way through the streets with the sole purpose of trying to figure out if John was following him. For the most part, however, Holmes seemed oblivious to John, moving at top speed through his own, entirely closed, world.

Finally, Holmes stopped in at a café. John waited at a bookshop opposite, pretending to examine the titles, for a few minutes. When it seemed obvious that Holmes intended to stay put for a while, John went in.

As the jingling bell on the door announced John's entrance, he focused on keeping his eyes straight ahead, taking in the fact that Holmes had chosen a table by the door. The place was otherwise almost empty, except for a pair of older men who sat in a corner, talking in the blustering tones of those who had important business to discuss.

John went to the counter and asked the barista for a filtered coffee. A quick order to fill. If Holmes decided to leave suddenly, John would be ready to follow.

He was well into creeper territory. He knew that. Stalking was sincerely the last thing on his mind when he started all this. He was crossing a line, or several of them, and he was simultaneously ashamed, and determined to get the book.

Once he had the right moment, the right opportunity, John would just approach Holmes, and talk to him about it. He would.

He just couldn't imagine doing it here, as he took his paper cup of coffee and stirred cream into it. In this place, so far removed from campus, John's need for the Munson didn't seem so intense.

Holmes had his phone out, and seemed to be vigorously typing out texts. He produced a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and began writing in it. John searched about and found a discarded newspaper, then took a seat as far away from Holmes as he could. He flipped the paper open, and read it while he sipped his coffee.

The only noise in the place was the conversation of the two older men. John found himself focusing on it without meaning to.

"Alex better watch himself, mate."

"Ah, it's more than a bit too late for watching himself. If you ask me, he's gone too far already."

"You think?"

"I do. Could find himself in trouble as soon as tonight."

"That soon, Frank?"

"Aye."

Idle gossip, could be about anything, John thought. Old men's chit chat. Maybe Alex's cholesterol was too high.

Meanwhile, Holmes held his phone in front of his face, apparently completely absorbed in whatever he was looking at.

John had been watching him for a long moment when he realised Holmes's gaze had shifted onto him. John blinked and looked down at his paper, turning the page as if he'd never found anything more fascinating in his life.

The two older men bundled out the door, still chatting.

"You need help with the package tonight, Frank?"

"Always."

As soon as they were gone, Holmes stood and approached the barista. "Thanks for the coffee. Brilliant as usual, Janet." He slid a tenner across the counter.

"My pleasure," she said, tucking the note into her shirt, and raising an eyebrow in the direction of the door. "You gonna follow, then?"

"Yup," he said, popping the "p." "Should be an easy day, so long as I can keep quiet and not be too obvious."

John glanced up at that. Holmes had fixed his gaze on him. John shrank under it, feeling his cheeks glow. Of course he'd been seen. He hadn't fooled Holmes. He'd barely fooled himself.

The barista was looking from Holmes, to John, and back again, making matters all the more embarrassing. "Don't suppose I can ask what they're going to do, then," she said.

"You'll read about it in the papers. Give it a few days."

John hazarded a glance up at Holmes, who continued to study John with a glare like a thousand lasers. John prepared himself to receive the kind of blast Frisbury and Crichton had warned him about, but the next time he looked up, Holmes was on his way out the door.

"Have a good one, Sherlock," the barista called out.

"Catch you later."

***

The next couple of days, John focussed on meeting a few deadlines, and preparing for exams. Between classes, he took frequent detours past the chem building, hoping to catch Holmes as he came or went, to no avail.

He'd vacillated wildly in the time since the incident in the café, at turns ashamed of himself for thinking he could follow someone and not be noticed, and finding himself more and more intrigued by everything he'd heard there. Holmes was certainly more than he appeared to be, involved as he was with some sort of--amateur detective work? Was that even a job a student could have?

John couldn't imagine what those two older men could possibly be up to, that would warrant Holmes's attention, but he'd been scanning the papers each morning anyway, just in case.

Thursday afternoon, the weather took a sudden turn for the unseasonably warm and sunny, and John followed the bulk of the student population to the centre of campus, where a stretch of lawn was perfectly positioned to catch the late autumn afternoon light. He took off his jacket, sat on it, and fished around in his backpack for his laptop.

He was lost in trying to figure out the notes he'd taken in neurobiology--must have been asleep that day--when raised voices made him look up.

"Holmes, you utter shit. What are you doing here?"

A thrill of surprise moved through John as he realised that Holmes had taken a seat under a tree, about twenty feet away. Based on the books arrayed around him (no Munson, unfortunately), he'd set himself up for an afternoon of study, like everyone else.

Now a couple of blokes were towering over him, in classic intimidation postures: fists on hips, staring down at him, as if they somehow owned the place.

Holmes kept his eyes on his book, a hardness coming into his features. "Trying to get away from the campus cro-magnon factor. As usual, I've failed." His gaze shifted to John, then back up to the two men standing over him.

John's heart sank. He'd certainly never intended to behave like a bully. He hated the idea that Holmes might lump him in with these arses.  

"Think you're clever. You weren't even there for the last test. Milverton's going to fail you. He said as much to the class, didn't he, Matt?"

"That's right."

John's fist clenched. He found himself hoping the two would make a move, so he could jump in. It had been a while since he'd had a good scuffle.

Holmes leaned over the few inches necessary to look at John between the two blokes' legs. His brow furrowed as he took in John's posture, the fist clenched at his side. He leaned back against the tree, looking up at his opponents, perfectly at ease, apparently. After a sharp intake of breath, he began to speak.

"Matt Grayson. Still having issues with premature ejaculation, I see."

A couple of girls, sitting together on a blanket in the sun, and well within earshot, stopped chatting and turned to watch what was happening. John barely suppressed a grin.

"What? No--"

"Oh, _come now_ , no shame in admitting you get a little extra excited around your special lady. She's very pretty, as I recall, from the chem mixer at the beginning of the year. She spent all evening going after Stokeley here, but you just weren't having it, were you, Stokely?"

"I--" Stokely shot Grayson a guilty look.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry Stokeley," Holmes continued. "You did have it, in the broom closet, in fact, didn't you? Then you dumped her for somebody else. So generous of you, _Matty_ , to take up with Stokeley's castoffs. A girl like her shouldn't be lonely just because Stokeley can't control himself."

Holmes gathered his books, sliding them into his messenger bag with athletic efficiency. He stood, pausing for a moment to stare down his opponents. John half rose to his feet, ready to join if there was a fight to be had. He didn't think there would be. Stokeley and Grayson looked utterly defeated.

Holmes shimmied around the pair of them, who stared at each other, resentment and confusion making a delightful mix on their faces.

On his way across the lawn, cheeky bugger that he clearly was, Holmes turned to look at John, smiled, and winked.

***

Friday afternoon, John finished his last class and rode his bike across town, to the place Mike had suggested they go.

"We know we're both going to be finishing papers and studying this weekend," Mike had said. "Why not celebrate the sort of end of term now?"

"Eat drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall pull an all nighter sort of thing?" John had joked.

"Exactly."

Mike had seemed keen on trying this new place he'd found, Angelo's. He'd explained to John that it was an as-yet-undiscovered spot, where good food and good wine could be had on the cheap. It was a bit out of the way, but worth it, apparently.

John didn't mind the extra distance. As he pedaled along the river, he found his mind drifting back to everything that had happened this week. He'd been terribly distracted by Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't make the bloke out at all, but he certainly wanted to know more.

His paper was due in six days. He needed the Munson--badly--but even worse, he felt a keen blade of interest stirring. He was truly stuck, wanting to know more--hell, he should call it what it was--wanting to know _Holmes_ \--but needing, for the sake of his grade, to get the book.

 _Hey, nice to meet you, yes, I'm the bloke who's been following you, can I get your number, also give me that book you've been hoarding for no reason_ was a dreadful way to introduce oneself, especially to a man who, as far as John could tell, had his fair share of bullying and bad treatment.

Mike had been in on the beginning of this whole mess. Perhaps he would have some insight into how John could fix things. They would have some wine, fill their bellies, and maybe John would be able to explain himself well enough to get some advice. 

He locked up his bike a couple of storefronts down from Angelo's, straightened his jacket--he'd made an effort, even ironed a dress shirt and his one good pair of trousers--and went in.

The place was small, all tiny tables covered with crisp white linens and candles, and full of couples. The kind of spot that would be perfect for a date.

John sighed. He really should get a girlfriend, one of these days. Or a boyfriend. The thought made his stomach flip as he imagined sitting here, at one of these tables, with Holmes.

"Just yourself this evening, Sir?" An older man, balding, in a white shirt and black trousers, greeted John with a smile.

"Ah, I'm waiting on a friend, but he's a bit late," John said, checking his watch. Ten past seven. Not like Mike at all, to be late. He would probably be here any minute.

"Here you are, Sir," the man replied, all kindness and charm. "You can sit here. Good view of the door, for when your friend comes in."

The place was so small, all the tables technically had a pretty good view of the door, John thought. "Thanks."

"If I might suggest, the house red is particularly tasty this evening. We've just got in a very nice Shiraz. One could say it's positively plucky. Glass while you wait?"

John found himself smiling up at the man. "That--that sounds lovely, thank you. Sorry, I'm John. What's your name?"

"Angelo," the man said. "This is my place. I'll be taking care of you this evening."

"Ah." Bit unusual, a restaurant owner paying so much attention to a customer like him. "Well, thank you. You're very kind."

"My pleasure," Angelo replied with a smile.

For the next half hour, John hardly had time to wonder what had happened to Mike. Angelo brought out a glass of the Shiraz, which was, indeed, plucky, and a plate of bread soaked in garlic butter, followed by a huge serving of eggplant baked with zucchini, tomatoes, shallots, basil, and mozzarella. ("A new dish I'm trying. Tell me what you think. You'll be doing me a favour, really.")

John was so absorbed in eating, chatting with Angelo about being vegetarian (wondering how Angelo seemed to know that John was, without asking), and enjoying himself, that he didn't think to wonder about Mike, until his phone buzzed.

A text.

_Sorry, mate! Held up finishing group assignment. In for a long night. Crush a cup of wine for me. Hope you're not having too bad a time._

John felt a twinge, a reflex from the time when he was younger, and alone a lot, and sad about it. He started to type a sardonic reply-- _You know, I get stood up all the time, but never thought you'd cut me like this_ \--when the door opened, and _he_ walked in.

Holmes looked even more amazing than usual, all tall beauty, imperious in a swoopy coat with the collar turned up. Something warm and hopeful fluttered in John's chest as he wondered if it were possible that Holmes had set all this up, so they could meet here.

Then he noticed the woman on Holmes's arm.

The older woman.

The much older woman.

Had Holmes brought his mum for a night out on the town? John smiled down at his phone, for lack of a better thing to do, as Angelo made a fuss.

"Sherlock! And Mrs. Hudson. So good to see you. Anything, on the house, for both of you."

Not his mum, then. But who? If this were somehow all for John's benefit, he wondered what the point was.

Mike missing, and Holmes here--it couldn't be a coincidence. He typed a message to Mike, determined to ask all questions later. _No worries, mate. I'm having a much more interesting time than I would have thought. Cheers._

He looked up in time to watch Angelo pulling out a chair for Mrs. Hudson, at a table close to the bar.

"Just dessert tonight, Angelo," Holmes was saying.

The older woman whispered in Holmes's ear.

"And if you've got a good port, we'll have some." The warmth in his voice was remarkable, nothing like the cold, sharp tones he'd used at the coffee shop, or with the two blokes who'd given him trouble.

"Of course, of course. Whatever you like, Sherlock. Tiramisu? My mother's recipe."

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked the woman.

"Oh, lovely. We're celebrating, you know."

"Ah! Success?"

"That's right. Frank's been arrested, thanks to Sherlock."

"Hush now," Holmes said. "Won't be over until the trial."

"Oh, I don't think he's going anywhere, not with the--what d'you call it--flight risk you helped establish. First step is everything, I always say. And once he's put away, I can safely divorce him. That will be good, won't it?"

"Not being married to a murderer? I'd say so." Sherlock's tone was cool, but that didn't stop the woman from pinching his cheek.

"He's so clever, our Sherlock, isn't he, Angelo?"

"He is indeed, ma'am."

John tried to arrange his features to suppress his surprise. Somehow, Holmes was involved with making sure that this kindly woman got rid of her dreadful husband? As terrible as his reputation was at school, he was, apparently, something of a hero to these people.

John was still struggling to sort it all out, when Angelo turned up at his table with a glass of port, a cup of espresso, and a plate of tiramisu.

"I thought you'd enjoy this," he said.

John savoured the dessert, which was incredible. In the meantime, Holmes and his friend--Mrs. Hudson--talked and laughed together at their table. There were only a few other people left in the restaurant--mostly couples finishing a late meal. The chatter was low-level, the mellow nonsense of relaxed conversation. Still, John couldn't possibly hear what Holmes was saying from all the way across the room.

It felt terribly naughty to spy a little bit more, but three glasses of Shiraz and one very large port had loosened John's limbs, and his conscience. Using the flimsy excuse of paying his bill, John stood, and wandered over to the bar, leaning on it while he tried to hear what Mrs. Hudson was saying.

"...shouldn't be here with me...find a nice young man to take you out. Feed you up a bit too, dear. You're awfully thin."

John blinked, finding his own reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar. Behind him, he could clearly see Holmes and his companion, chatting over empty glasses and plates. Mrs. Hudson had placed her hand on Holmes's cheek, which Holmes, as thorny as he'd seemed to be in every other circumstance, allowed.

"I'm fine," Holmes said. "Worry about yourself. You'll be heading back onto the market soon, won't you? Have them lining up outside Baker Street." 

Mrs. Hudson giggled, clearly delighted. John found himself transfixed by the picture they made.

Holmes was a mystery, at turns brash and terrible, and, apparently, brilliant and kind. It seemed he'd cobbled a strange sort of family together for himself, whom he'd taken pains to help.

"I do wish you'd take the flat above mine. There's no one I would rather let it to," Mrs. Hudson was saying.

"Perhaps. Seems a bit big for just one person."

"Just like I was saying."

"Stop."

"Well, at least tell me you've got some interesting plans for the weekend. Fun Saturday night out dancing, maybe? There's a club that Mrs. Turner's tenants were telling me about. It's all the rage, apparently."

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Saturday night is chaps night."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

John suppressed a smile as he leaned on the bar, covering his mouth with his hand. Sherlock Holmes was into men. At least, he didn't deny it. It felt like the last puzzle piece John needed, the final clue to the mystery. It allowed John to acknowledge a truth he'd been avoiding, almost since he'd first laid eyes on Holmes: John was beyond interested. He was positively smitten.

He watched in the mirror, as Holmes bundled Mrs. Hudson into her coat.

"If you must know, I'm going to be studying all evening in the Humanities library. There's a collection of books on the third floor that I simply must look through."

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson was saying, as they made their way for the door. "That's no way for a handsome young man like you to be spending his time."

John blinked at himself in the mirror, amazed by everything he'd just overheard.

He shifted his gaze, to find Holmes, watching him in the mirror. Their eyes met briefly, and then Holmes bent and whispered something in Mrs. Hudson's ear that made her giggle.

Then they were gone, and John was watching Holmes hail a cab on the street outside the restaurant window.

Angelo came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean dish towel.

"John! Everything all right?"

"Yeah, brilliant, actually." John couldn't keep from smiling. "It was--a great evening. Truly. I thought I'd say goodnight. And pay you, of course."

"Oh, no, John. Your money's no good here."

"What? Don't be ridiculous. I want to pay."

"I can't allow it. Not when Sherlock Holmes says you're his friend."

John stared at Angelo for a long, tipsy, uncomprehending moment, before turning to look at the restaurant window once again. Holmes was gone, but he'd made sure that John would know where to find him, tomorrow night.

Sod the Munson. John was aiming much higher now.

***

John crept up on the corner where Holmes sat, trying to be as quiet as possible, holding the copy of _History of Philosophy_ up like a talisman. He reached the end of the last row of shelves, and peeked his head around it, watching Holmes where he lounged at the carrel, his feet up on the desk, his lap full of the history of trepanation.

John was being ridiculous, but he'd never been so nervous. After last night, especially, he'd built Holmes up in his mind.

John was beginning to think that Holmes was a great man, or could be, could be great for John, especially. That maybe he and John could be great together.

He'd only just stepped around the end of the shelves, when Holmes spoke, not bothering to move. His deep baritone rang out through the stacks.

"John Watson."

John froze in place. He cleared his throat. "Y-yes?"

"John Watson, third year biology major, aspiring doctor, sloppy dresser who should probably do laundry more than once a month, but who cleans up rather well when the occasion requires it, as proven last night."

John knew that his mouth was hanging open. He somehow couldn't manage to shut it. "Well, I--"

"Want the Munson."

"What?"

"The Munson. The entire reason you started asking about me and following me last week. You've been trying to get the Munson." Still without turning around or looking at John, Holmes picked up a large hardcover book and held it up, over his shoulder. "Here it is. I expect you'll be on your way now. You've got a mediocre term paper to complete."

John took a step back. This was all going too fast. He didn't know exactly how to say everything he was thinking and feeling, but he certainly didn't want this cold exchange. "No."

"No?"

"I mean I do, I have a paper. And I hope it won't be mediocre. But I--"

"It will be if you use the Munson."

"What? No, it was recommended."

"By Professor Stevens."

"Yes, the lecturer for the course, he told me--"

"He told you it was essential to your thesis. The same advice he gives to everyone, every time he teaches bioethics. Everyone will be using arguments from this book, so everyone's paper will be the same. Yours, on the other hand, will stand out if you use this."

Holmes stood, handsome and well put together in jeans, t-shirt, trainers, and cardigan. He held out a photocopied article. John stepped forward, even more nervous to be standing right in front of Holmes, after all this time spent observing him at a distance. Holmes was taller than John, by a head. John stared at the prominent line of Holmes's collarbone. He took the paper, and read the title: "Trends in American Bioethics."

"Published three months ago," Holmes said. "No one expects undergraduates to be up on the latest research, and Stevens certainly isn't. Use that well, and your paper will probably be better than even you expect."

John studied the article, frowning at it, as his mind churned through everything he wanted to say. "Thanks."

"On your way then, John Watson, who is here on scholarship and is left-handed and has tried on several occasions to cultivate a smoking habit, but failed."

Holmes made a gesture with his hands-- _scoot_ \--and sat back down in his chair, shoulders hunched.

John took a step back. He certainly wasn't going anywhere, not after--everything.

"Wait--how do you know all that?"

Holmes snorted. "You've got a lighter in your jeans pocket but no cigarettes on you. You have a divot left by the cheap disposable pens you favour on the middle finger of your left hand, and as for the scholarship, I looked you up when you started following me last week."

"Okay, that's--amazing. You're--are you some kind of private detective?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Total arsehole, if you ask half the students here."

"But not if you ask Angelo or Mrs. Hudson."

At the mention of their names, Sherlock looked down at the desk, a hint of pink staining his cheeks. Embarrassed? John couldn't imagine why.

"You help people, don't you? You try to make things better for them."

"I also skewer people."

John smiled. He lowered his voice, allowing it to be as soft as he could make it. "I've seen."

"Like those who stalk me for the better part of a week."

John coughed. "Sorry about that. It's just I--"

Holmes spun in his chair, and was on his feet again, scrutinising John, although the look on his face was a little more vulnerable, a little more open than John would have expected. "I thought you'd been put up to it. Fizzbury and Crackton."

"No, no." John was shaking his head vigorously, even as he struggled to get a word in.

"--who would do anything to get the better of me, especially after I made Fizzbury's pee bioluminescent. Should have heard the shrieks. What he gets for always going to the loo in the middle of the night, refusing to switch the light on, and urinating everywhere like an untrained monkey--"

"Wait, is he your flatmate?"

"Never sign on to share housing with your classmates, terrible idea."

"Are they _both_ your flatmates? Jesus. You made his pee glow? Wow."

Holmes's voice had gone high-pitched and crackly, in imitation of Frisbury's whine. "Ooh, Holmes, it'll be the most fun. No one else would room with them, of course."

"That's awful. I'd have committed flatmate-icide by now--course, you could always move out." John remembered, with a thrill, Mrs. Hudson's offer to let Sherlock move into the building she apparently owned, on Baker Street. John wondered if Sherlock would need a new flatmate.

"So yes, John Watson, when I saw that you were obviously following me, and you're exactly the sort of man who I--I mean to say, when I saw you following me, I--"

"I only did it because I didn't know how to talk to you at first, and--wait, the sort of man who you _what_?"

"--I assumed, that is to say, I'd never have thought that it _didn't_ have anything to do with my vile flatmates--"

"I mean, then I got interested, I mean, you were interesting, and I _really_ didn't know how to talk to you--"

"And once I got hold of your friend Mike Stamford and asked him all about you I realised you had other motives altogether and I suppose I rather liked--"

"Mike _was_ in on it then!"

"--the attention."

"What?"

"Your attention."

They'd been talking over each other for long enough, John decided, and all he'd learned so far was that, as much as he'd been trying to figure out Sherlock Holmes, Holmes had been trying to figure out John, too. He waited.

They should do this one sentence at a time, probably.

Sherlock's eyes flickered up at John, then back down again. (It would be Sherlock now, John realised. Sherlock, he hoped, for a really long time.)

Sherlock spoke first. "You were ready to fight, on the lawn, on Thursday. Why?"

"Dunno. Two against one. Hardly fair."

"Hm. You've got a bit of a hero complex."

"Maybe. Don't you?" John stood his ground, watched Sherlock's face, the troubled frown that crossed it, before his expression became something more guarded.

"Some fights," John started, then shook his head-- "some _people_ are worth it."

Sherlock's smile, when it came, was crooked, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. He was blinking hard at the desk. For an arrogant prick, he certainly didn't take a compliment well.

"I wondered," John said, his voice coming out rough, "if you're not too busy with--" he gestured at the desk with one hand-- "all this--if you might like to go and have dinner."

It was certainly late, for dinner, but John had been standing in the stacks for the better part of an hour now, and he knew that Sherlock hadn't eaten, because he'd been following him since earlier that afternoon.

"Oh, I could put this away," Sherlock said, gesturing at the piles of books. "Still haven't found out when this novelist drilled a hole in his head, but I've narrowed it down to after 1935."

"Fun."

"Could be, but it can wait." Sherlock closed the book on trepanation, and placed it next to the piles of novels. He patted the top of the desk, and smiled at John shyly.

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his. His fingers were warm and smooth, the palm of his hand pliant in John's. John leaned in, and placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"What was that for?" Sherlock said.

John shrugged. He was feeling overwhelmed, flooded with an optimism he rarely experienced. He'd never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes before. "For you." He tugged on Sherlock's hand. "Let's go."

"All right."

As they left the library, still hand in hand, John paused on the steps. "Hang on. If you've had the Munson, how can everyone else in my class have used it?"

"Pardon?"

"You said, everyone else in my class will be using the Munson for their papers, and I'll be the only one who isn't. There are fourteen people in that seminar. How can they be using it, if you've had it out all this time?"

When he spoke, good humour was clear in Sherlock's voice. "Several of the people in that seminar are friends of Stokeley and Grayson's, and participated in a particularly cruel prank against me involving a pole and duct tape last year. Initially I borrowed the Munson so none of them could have it, but then I realised using it would probably lower their grades. I've been loaning it out, a few days at a time. Charging some of them for the privilege. They're all exceedingly pleased with themselves. Each one thinks that no one else has had access to it, except for a couple of people, altruists, inevitable in any moderately sized group, who told their friends. For the most part, they each think they've got an advantage over everyone else. Everyone likes a good conspiracy, especially when they think they're at the heart of it."

"Wait--why didn't you loan it to me?"

"Oh, I knew you wouldn't fall for it. You're far too clever."

John squinted at Sherlock's face. There was something in his tone that was just a bit too earnest. "You were going through the class list alphabetically, weren't you? I'm last on the list."

"I was going to get in touch with you last week. You started investigating me before I could. I thought I'd either overplayed my hand, or you were the most interesting thing to happen to me since I started university. Thankfully, it turned out to be the latter."

"Maybe a little bit of both?"

"Maybe."

The night was chilly. Their breath fogged out of them in great gouts. John held Sherlock's hand more tightly as they carried on walking through campus. "Incredible."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do."


End file.
